Thou art all fair, my love; And there is no spot in thee.

There are threescore queens, and fourscore concubines, And virgins without number:

We will go up early to the vineyards, We will see if the vine hath budded, If the blossom is opening, And the pomegranates are in bloom: There will I give thee my loves.

Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, Leaning upon her beloved? I awoke thee under the apple-tree: There thy mother brought thee forth; There she brought thee forth that bore thee.